Behind them, something was exploding in the Fist of Righteousness, far away. Did we do that? Carveth wondered. Smith was in the cockpit before her as, with a great lurch, the Pym pulled free of the stricken warship. Carveth stumbled and fell onto her back, and remained there until Suruk undid the catches on the gun harness as he stepped over her on the way to his room. She found some beers in the galley and brought them to the cockpit. The main engines fired, and in a moment they were putting thousands of kilometres between themselves and Gilead’s ship. ‘We did it!’ Carveth cried. ‘We rescued you!’ ‘Indeed you did. Thank you, Carveth. You’re a good sort.’ Smith stood up and motioned to the control seat. ‘The helm is yours, pilot.’ ‘Thanks, Boss.’ It was good to be back in the driving seat, she thought: less good was the fact that Smith was still in his boots, jacket and underpants and his groin was now at the level of her head, an issue about which she had decidedly negative feelings.
